


The Restroom Incident

by protectoroffaeries



Series: Kids on the Hill [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Awkwardness, First Meetings, Kid Fic, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9804740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectoroffaeries/pseuds/protectoroffaeries
Summary: Ten year old Angelica Schuyler really has to use the restroom.





	

**Author's Note:**

> two in one day
> 
> Alex mentions in passing in Shot that John and Angelica are friends, but he kinda downplays it. So, the true story of how John and Angelica became friends ~ and who knows, maybe it'll be really relevant later.
> 
> as I mentioned on my other fic, I wanna write more Hamilton fics and I'm really curious as to what y'all wanna read, so if you have something you really want me to write about or whatever, just drop me a line in the comments 
> 
> or just drop me a line in comments because you liked the fic, that'd be really great, too

Angelica doesn't like the parties she has to attend for Papa’s work. They're boring, and she has to wear itchy dresses and smile until her face hurts. But Mama always reminds her that Papa does everything for her, and Papa  _ does,  _ so Angelica doesn't complain. She even helps keep Peggy in line when her youngest sister starts to get cranky. Thankfully, Eliza  _ never _ gets cranky; sometimes, she's better at handling the parties than Angelica is. Mama hates it when Eliza acts more properly than Angelica because Angelica is older and more mature and should be setting an example for her little sisters.

So, Angelica is doing her best to be nice and happy toward everyone she meets at the Secretary of State's winter ball. Even that brat Aaron Burr who thinks he's better than everyone. She can't tell if Mama is pleased with the way she's acting or not because Mama is the master at looking good at parties, but Angelica thinks she's doing well. Peggy isn't crying or throwing her food, either, which is a positive sign. Eliza is off with Papa somewhere, which Angelica tries not feel a little jealous about.

Angelica sips water from a wine glass, which makes her feel fancy, and then takes a bite of a chicken nugget, which makes her feel like a kid. Whenever she voices this complaint, her mama sharply reminds her that she  _ is  _ a kid. But Angelica is ten years old, and she's pretty sure she isn't on the same level as six year old Peggy anymore. Surely, double digits aren't meaningless.

“Mama,” she says when she's finished her dinner, and, more importantly, when Mama is done talking to Vice President Adams. She once got in trouble for interrupting when Mama was talking to someone important, and she won't make that mistake again. “May I go to the restroom?”

“Yes, Angelica, but don't dawdle,” Mama says. Angelica stands, smooths out her dress, and pushes in her chair. The Secretary of State's ball is in his actual house, and she marvels how he's rich enough to have his own giant ballroom. Her own house isn't small by any means, and she knows her papa makes a lot of money, but they don't have a  _ ballroom. _

She leaves the awe-inspiring ballroom and follows signs posted on the wall that have arrows pointing to the restroom. They lead her down a hall lined with old-timey oil paintings and to a dark, wooden door that shines like it's been recently polished. It has beautiful details carved into; mostly flowers and vines. Angelica puts a hand on the golden doorknob and wonders if it's made of actual gold.

She turns the knob, but the door is locked. Someone else must already be in there. She leans against the opposite wall to wait, but as the minutes slowly tick by, she starts to worry that her mama will think she's dawdling. And then her bladder starts to protest, so she crosses her knees. Angelica really has to  _ go.  _ Urgently. Whoever is in there better  _ hurry up. _

She waits for a few more minutes. Presses her ear to the door to see if she can hear the sounds of the toilet flushing or the sink running. She hears neither, but she thinks does she hear… faint crying?

“Hello,” she calls, “are you okay?”

“Go away,” a muffled voice responds.

“I have to use the restroom,” she says.

“It's a big house. Find another,” the voice responds. The suggestion is ridiculous; her mama would kill her if she found out Angelica was roaming through the Secretary of State's house on her own, searching out a restroom other than the one he'd set aside for his guests. It would be… improper.

“Please, just let me use this bathroom, and I'll leave you alone.” Angelica crosses her legs as tight as she can. Her bladder feels ready to explode.

The door gives a little  _ click  _ as it's unlocked, and it swings open. The occupant is a boy about her age, tear tracks staining his cheeks and an expression halfway between pouty and frustrated. “What part of ‘go away’ is hard for you to understand?” Now that the door isn't muffling his words, she can hear that there's the little  _ twang  _ of an accent to them.

“What part of ‘I have to use the restroom’ is hard for  _ you _ to understand?” she shoots back, and when the boy makes no move to get out of her way and let her relieve herself in private, Angelica shoves him out of the way and walks right past him. She has no choice but to be rude and improper; she very well might wet herself if she isn't, and that would definitely embarrass her parents more than a squabble with some boy would.

“What are you doing?” he demands. Angelica ignores him completely, ignores the overly decorated and sparkly clean bathroom, ignores the fact that the door is still half-open. She pulls down her tights and underwear, and the boy gasps, but he does have the decency to look away. The door slips from his grip and falls shut. Angelica hikes up her skirts and sits down on the toilet. A sigh of relief escapes her; she really had to  _ go.  _ She wipes, flushes, rearranges her clothes so they're all back on properly, and then she washes her hands with an adorable fish-shaped, shea-butter bar of soap.

“What the  _ heck?”  _ says the boy from behind her, and now that she's not so focused on emptying her bladder, a deep feeling of shame creeps over her. She just took of her  _ panties _ in front of some random  _ boy.  _ Her mama would certainly kill her for that.

“I told you I needed to use the toilet,” she says tightly. This boy doesn't know her. He can't tell her mama.

“But  _ I  _ was here first.”

“But  _ you _ were just crying,” Angelica says, and then she frowns, “Why were you crying?”

The boy rubs his face with the back of his hand. Now that she's not worried about other things, she actually takes a second to look him over. He's the same height as her, but she has heels on, so he's really a little taller. His hair is long, curly, and pulled back into a ponytail. His face and neck are covered in dark freckles that stand out against his tan skin. He's wearing a suit with a red tie that doesn't go well with his hazel eyes  _ at all,  _ but really, he doesn't look that bad. He's actually cute, she supposes, but she isn't boy crazy like some of her friends, so that doesn't matter to her so much.

“None of your business,” he snarls, but Angelica is unimpressed. Boys aren't as scary as they think they are, not by a long shot.

“It is my business,” she says, putting her hands on her hips, “because it kept me from using the bathroom when I really had to go.”

“No it didn't,” the boy says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He has a point. The shame flows through Angelica again.

“Okay, that's true. But… you can still tell me why you're sad. My papa says that talking about it sometimes makes you feel better.” Angelica doesn't know why she wants to hear what's bothering this boy. Just that she  _ needs _ to know.

_ “My _ papa is a jerk,” the boy mutters.

“Who's your papa?” asks Angelica. Maybe she's heard her parents talk about him, if he's important enough.

“Henry Laurens,” says the boy. “He's a senator from South Carolina.” That explains the Southern accent. Angelica  _ has _ heard of Henry Laurens. He's one of the new senators, recently elected, just like her papa. Papa and Mama don't like him because he's a Republican. Maybe that's why his son doesn't like him, either.

“Oh. My papa's a senator for New York.”

“What's his name?”

“Philip Schuyler,” she says, and then she adds, “I'm his oldest daughter, Angelica Schuyler.”

“I’m the oldest, too. John Laurens.”

John Laurens leans against the wall, and so Angelica leans against the sink, opposite of him. They stand there in silence for a moment, and then Angelica has to break it: “Is your papa the reason you were crying?”

John bites his lip. Angelica thinks he's going to ignore her, but he actually says, “Sort of.”

She waits for him to continue.

“...my  _ mamá  _ is still in South Carolina.” The way he says ‘mamá’ is different than the way he says other words. It spins off his tongue and sounds nicer, somehow.

Angelica blinks. “But why?”  _ Her  _ mama moved with her, her papa, and her sisters.

“She and my papa got a divorce. He has a new wife now. He says we can't see our real  _ mamá _ anymore,” John explains. His lip curls: “Papa's new wife wants me to call her mommy.”

Angelica's heart hurts. Her mama can be tough sometimes, but Angelica can't imagine never seeing her again. For it to be John's papa keeping them apart? Angelica couldn't fathom it. As for some other lady expecting to be considered John's mother, that’s just rude.

“That isn't fair. He can't just keep you from your  _ mama.”  _ Angelica tries to say it like John does, but she falls flat. Her attempt does bring a little smile to his face, though.

“He doesn't care about fair. He just cares about himself,” John says sadly, the smile dropping as quickly as it had appeared.

Angelica suddenly feels very angry with John's father. She wants to march back into that party and give him a piece of her mind. But she's only a kid, and she can't talk to any adult like that, even if the adult is a mean buttface that keeps his kids from their mother.

“I care about you,” she says instead. John looks at her, eyebrows raised in doubt. “You're my friend now.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” Angelica says, and she holds out an arm to him like she sees her papa do for her mama when they enter and reenter formal settings. John stares at it for a second, but then he pushes off the wall and takes her arm, displaying his knowledge of manners, too.

“You know,  _ you're  _ supposed to be holding  _ my  _ arm,” he says.

Angelica rolls her eyes. “That's only for couples,” she says, although she isn't sure if that's true.

“Is it?”

“Yes. We're just friends,” she says pointedly.

John smiles again. “Don't worry, Angelica. I know guys and girls can just be friends. It's just, some of the older ladies might not. My grandmas think every girl is my girlfriend.” Angelica is familiar with this phenomenon. Her grandmas think that every boy is her boyfriend.

“Then they'll just have to think you're the girlfriend.”

“I would make a great girlfriend,” John says, his tone serious, but when Angelica looks at his face, she can see that he's trying really hard not laugh.

“And I would be a great boyfriend,” says Angelica, puffing out her chest and leading John out of the bathroom and down the hall. They talk and laugh the whole way back to the party. John seems to forget about his family troubles for the time being - and Angelica forgets to worry about her mama's opinions, just for a little while.


End file.
